


The Letter

by NB_Cecil



Series: Doctors and Lizards [21]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassians aren’t a racial and cultural homogeony!, Castellan Garak, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Garak Buys a Gift for Parmak, Garak is a Romantic at Heart, Heavy Angst, Intersex Kelas Parmak, Long-Distance Relationship, M/M, POV Elim Garak, POV Kelas Parmak, Parmak Confesses and Garak Forgives, Parmak isn’t the one-dimensional Good Guy we see through Garak’s eyes, Poetry, Referenced Child Abuse, The Crimson Shadow - Una McCormack, Third Generation Immigrant Parmak, letter writing, referenced CSA, referenced rape
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-21 23:12:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,942
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17651477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NB_Cecil/pseuds/NB_Cecil
Summary: Post-The Crimson Shadow, Garak returns to Earth to tie up some loose ends as ambassador before his official resignation. Meanwhile, Parmak is travelling too on Cardassia and thinking about what it means to move in together.With apologies to Thom Gunn.





	The Letter

**Author's Note:**

> **Content Warnings:**  
>  References to child abuse, CSA and incestuous CSA, rape and murder. Old Regime Cardassia was a horrible place and Tain was all-round awful. Please take care of yourself and skip this in favour of some wholesome fluff if you need to.

Castellan-elect Elim Garak makes one last trip to Earth to tie up a few loose ends before his service as Ambassador comes to its official end. He meets with Federation officials and permanent staff at the embassy, and sorts through files, annotating some and deleting others, in order to make the transition to his successor as seamless as possible. In the evenings he packs his personal effects—books mainly, some clothing, and several paintings—ready to be transported home to Cardassia Prime.

Once he’s finished his official duties and the crates containing his possessions are sealed and labelled ready for transit he takes a trip to London where he spends a morning walking along the canal, stopping at a bustling cafe to drink _Tarkalean_ tea and compose a letter he’ll never send to a doctor whose home city he is currently visiting in which he’s far too honest about his feelings. At Camden Lock he leaves the canal to browse the shops and market stalls, searching for some small token to remember his time on this planet by. He returns to Paris that evening carrying a pair of Chelsea boots, their leather a red so deep it’s almost black—a gift for the other doctor back on Prime—and a slim volume of Thom Gunn’s poetry.

Elim smiles to himself as he settles in the armchair in his office, a pot of red leaf tea on the coffee table and the volume of poems open on his lap, conjuring up a mental image of his dear Kelas on a cold Cardassian winter day, pulling on the new boots, their ostentatious patent shine contrasting with the going-at-the-knees trousers, tattered tunics and baggy knitted cardigans that make up the doctor’s wardrobe. His personal comm chimes to indicate the arrival of a message.

_My dear Elim,_

_We are on the cusp of something new—both you and I, and our beloved Cardassia—and at this juncture I feel compelled to put a few things in writing where they cannot be overlooked._

_If I am to stand by your side through your tenure as castellan, then I need you to know all of who and what I am and what I have been. Please, Elim, do read this letter carefully and think on whether you truly want me as your most intimate confidante through what will, no doubt, be a challenging time under intense public scrutiny. I am most gratified that you ask me to move into the castellan’s residence and I would love nothing more than for us to make a home together, but I need you to ask yourself with the full knowledge of what you are about to read below if I am truly a person you want to share your life with. I know that you have a tendency to view me as the embodiment of all that is good, but as you are well aware, none of our generation are without blame and I am sorry to say that I am no exception._

_You have confessed your worst excesses to me many times and it is now my turn to confess. I hope that you can grant me absolution..._

*****

Kelas Parmak has never felt like he truly _belongs_. In Cardassia City his pale scales, dark eyes, and long blue-black hair with its shock-of-white Mallen streak he’s long since stopped dyeing over, as well as the ease with which he combines the herbal medicine and folk remedies passed down through generations of _parmakass_ (healers) in his family with conventional medicine, have marked him out as _other_. And yet here, in the small town on the outskirts of the rainforest on the Ba’aten Peninsular in Morfan Province which his mother called _home_ even though she was born and raised in the capital, it is the mere smattering of words he knows of a language his grandparents were fluent in, his Paldar accent, and his too-tall frame compared to the malnourished locals that cause restauranteurs to pull out the _tourist menu_ with the ‘authentic’ dishes and higher prices, and groups of children to follow him down the street demanding _jumja_ and spare _Lek_. He’s grateful for this different kind of _not belonging_ though; he needs a change of surroundings in order to complete the task he badly needs to get done before Elim’s return, and the familiar-yet-distant feeling his late-grandparents’ home town evokes in him brings with it a certain calm focus.

Kelas picks at the remains of his over-cooked and over-priced ‘traditionally reared’ _zabo_ steak and reads over the few fragments of confessions he’s drafted so far. After nearly a decade of being to each other the closest either man has to family, Kelas finds it both alarming and frustrating that Elim still sees him as some great, shining goodness who has never made a mistake in his life, and has so far skilfully shut down any attempt from Kelas to broach the topic of his past compromises. It is time for Doctor Parmak to come clean.

“There’s blood on my hands too, Elim,” He murmurs to himself as he scrolls down the partial list of his moral failings that will make up the bulk of a letter he wants Elim to read while they’re light years apart and he has the space to process Kelas’ confession and decide whether he truly wants Kelas to move into the castellan’s official residence with him or if, in light of his confession, he prefers to distance himself both publicly and privately from his doctor.

 _As Tain’s personal physician, I developed a series of medical devices, including the_ Neural Resilience Implant _, of which I understand you were a recipient of during its trial phase. I am sorry for the suffering it caused you and for the strain its presence put on your friendships with your neighbours on_ DS9 _. I ask for your forgiveness, but I shall understand if you feel unable to grant it._

 _You likely have witnessed the effects of the drug_ subinol _, given that it was Tain’s preferred method of keeping subjects conscious and lucid during interrogation. You may not be aware that of fifteen vagrants rounded up from North Torr for the initial testing of the drug, only three survived. I know this because I led the team who conducted that trial. Four of them I injected with a dose so high I was certain it would result in their death. Tain wanted a detailed record of the effects of a fatal overdose. Again, I ask your forgiveness, but I do not take it as a given that you can extend forgiveness to me. Although I would certainly have faced execution for treason had I refused to carry out the trial, I cannot excuse trading twelve lives for my own._

 _I know your memory is exceptional even by Cardassian standards, so I have no doubt you will recall the details of my confession during my interrogation. You may even have seen through my lie when I gave you the name of my co-conspirator. There was none. The toxins expert I contacted to ask for advice on poisoning Tain was close a friend of my mother’s. She refused to help, saying a doctor had no business killing someone, no matter what atrocities they presided over. She died in a labour camp because I was so desperate for the bright lights and the staring and the cold to end that I said what I thought you wanted to hear, and that included condemning an innocent woman. I have always been a bad liar. I deeply regret that this one lie was so readily taken as the truth. You may find it amusing that it is_ I _asking_ you _to forgive my deceit, but please don’t be too flippant in your consideration of my request._

Kelas washes the last of his steak down with a long swig of _rokassa_ juice and pushes the plate aside. He sighs and turns back to the padd. He’s been at this confession for most of the day, and is only three items into a long list of regrets, unkindnesses and outright crimes. There are still the numerous other drugs and devices he was complicit in developing for the Order and how in the labour camp he withheld his medical expertise and the medicinal herbs he foraged and prepared until his fellow prisoners scraped together enough food with which to trade. All this remains to be written out in a way that he hopes Elim will find hard to ignore, but this afternoon he wants to get the big confession over with; the one he’s been avoiding even thinking much about, never mind actually speaking of with Elim, in the fear that it may tear them apart. He picks up his stylus with trepidation.

 _I must warn you,_ suthoss _, that what lies ahead is likely to be painful to read. I urge you to read this when Akret is nearby in case should this stir up some unpleasant emotions in you. I know she has proved herself an able source of emotional support to you in the past. Now that my caveat is out of the way, I shall take a deep breath and confess the crime that brings me most shame and regret._

_In the years we have known each other intimately we have both done a great job of pretending not to notice each other’s scars. Yours are more numerous, but the pattern is similar enough that I find it hard to believe we didn’t come about them under similar circumstances. I’ll tell you how I got mine:_

_As you are all too aware, Enabran Tain was a thoroughly unpleasant man. Among other things he was a violent pedophile and rapist. I didn’t come to his attention until I was called back from medical school after the trial and execution of my mother—you would have been at Bamarren then—to care for my father and to take over her role as Tain’s personal physician. I was 17 but as you know, I was a late developer and my neck ridges didn’t grow in until I started taking hormones at 20. I won’t go into the details. It’s not something I wish to relive, but I do need to tell you that the scars on my upper left arm were inflicted by Tain on the occasions I refused him. He would cut me with his knife and lock me in a closet as punishment. You have no doubt noticed that I have only three scars. The scars on your arms are too dense and numerous to count and I admire your strength in persisting in your resistance. All this I write by way of preamble to my most shameful confession, so that there can be no doubt that I knew what was going on and was complicit in its continuation._

_Do you remember the boy Tain fostered? He arrived when you were living with Mila and Tolan after you left Bamarren. He was a scrawny little thing and terrified of everyone. Tain inflicted some horrific injuries on him—far worse than anything he ever did to me—and sent him to me for treatment. I made plans with some friends in East Torr to get him out of the city to Pra Menkar, but I was afraid of what Tain might do when he discovered the boy was missing, so I delayed and made excuses until one morning the boy’s body was found floating in the public fountain in Tarlak._

_I don’t deserve your forgiveness for my failure to act to protect that child, Elim. And I certainly don’t deserve your forgiveness for my active participation in his abuse: every time Tain sent him to me I patched him up, knowing what was happening to him and I sent him right back to so he could do it again. I told myself trying to stop it would be too risky; I traded that child’s life for my own safety and comfort._

_Now you know my greatest shame, Elim, and I will understand if you never wish to see me again. I do want you to know that I strive to be a better man than I was and that if knowing this you do decide you still want to live with me, I will continue to strive to make us both be better men than we were._

Kelas arches his back over the back of the chair in a stretch and pushes the stylus into his hair for safekeeping. He closes the padd without reading over what he has written. The act of writing down such a painful episode from his past has drained him and the rest of the letter can wait until evening. He tucks the padd away in his pocket, pays his bill and leaves the restaurant, leaning on his cane and shaking out the stiffness in his legs from sitting still for so long as he walks toward the edge of town where trees encroach on the gardens of the increasingly sparse houses and wild _regova_ roam the streets in flapping, squawking flocks.

The road peters out into a track into the forest and Kelas continues walking until he is out-of-sight of the last house. He stops in the middle of the path and removes his wide-brimmed hat, turning his face up to the dappled sunlight filtered through the canopy and closes his eyes, focussing on the sounds of the forest around him. He stands like this for a full minute, maybe longer, using the solitude and the act of attentive listening to reset himself emotionally, centring himself back in his body. Slowly, he turns back toward the town, replaces his hat on his head, and begins the walk back to the guesthouse.

On the way he hurries past a couple of tourist-trap _gelata_ houses on the main thoroughfare, making a detour via backstreets to a small lean-to where he hands over his battered steel mug to be filled with hot, bittersweet _gelat_ and presses the lid on tight so it doesn’t loose too much heat on the walk. He buys ripe _rokassa_ from a street vendor and a _kismet_ loaf from a bakery on the journey. Armed with enough food to make a decent evening meal as well as the hot beverage, Kelas locks the door to his small room in the guesthouse. With nothing compelling him to leave until morning he hopes he can find the self-discipline to finish his letter.

*****

Elim pauses in his reading of Kelas’ letter and swipes the padd screen to check the file size. The letter is much longer and its content clearly more heavy than he had first anticipated. He sets the padd aside, closes Thom Gunn and places it on the coffee table. He rises from his chair and pokes his head out the office door.

“Sir?” Akret looks up from a stack of padds.

“When are you planning on calling it a night?” Elim asks.

She gestures to the padds. “Another hour, perhaps. Do you need anything?”

Elim shakes his head and returns to his office, closing the door. He pours himself a cup of tea and takes a long draught, bracing himself for whatever revelations Kelas’ letter contains. His brow ridges press together in concern as the thought occurs to him that perhaps this is what Terrans call a _Dear John_. He pushes the thought aside quickly and picks up the padd before he can try to second-guess Kelas’ intentions again.

He reads the letter over twice, weeping for the loss of the man above reproach he’d so successfully deluded himself into believing Kelas was for so many years, and for the man Kelas truly is—one who, like so many other Cardassians, had to choose from a range of shitty options the ones least likely to get him killed. When he’s finished he downs his now-cold tea and opens a new message on the padd, but after staring at the blank screen for some time without knowing how to begin, he sets the padd aside and picks up the book of poetry.

He is so engrossed in his reading that Akret’s knock at the door startles him. She asks if he needs anything before she turns in for the night and Elim replies that he doesn’t, wishing her goodnight. They are leaving Paris for the last time tomorrow.

Elim picks up the padd, screen still displaying the empty message template, and balances it on his knee while he leafs through the book. When he finds what he’s looking for he props the volume up on the teapot and types out his reply to Kelas.

 

_Forgive me, dearest Kelas. Words fail me. Perhaps you will accept the words of a 20th Century Earth poet instead._

_It was your birthday, we had drunk and dined_  
_Half of the night with our old friend_  
_Who'd showed us in the end_  
_To a bed I reached in one drunk stride._  
_Already I lay snug,  
_And drowsy with the wine dozed on one side.__

_I dozed, I slept. My sleep broke on a hug,_  
_Suddenly, from behind,_  
_In which the full lengths of our bodies pressed:_  
_Your instep to my heel,_  
_My shoulder-blades against your chest._  
_It was not sex, but I could feel_  
_The whole strength of your body set,_  
_Or braced, to mine,_  
_And locking me to you_  
_As if we were still twenty-two_  
_When our grand passion had not yet_  
_Become familial._  
_My quick sleep had deleted all_  
_Of intervening time and place._  
_I only knew_  
_The stay of your secure firm dry embrace._

_____ _

_~Elim._

_____ _


End file.
